


lead me out on the moonlit floor

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in Neverland, Emma makes do with Pan’s hatred, with Felix’s bloodlust, with the endless forest of the hellish islands, and with Hook and his touches that never stop - they never stop, and she finds herself unsure just how much she minds it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lead me out on the moonlit floor

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this prompt: I try my best to act super cool around you but every time you hold my hand or hug me I turn red and I think I have to start avoiding touching you

Captain Hook sidles -

No, sidles isn’t the word to accurately describe how he moves towards her, considering that he has to hack wildly at the fronds and snaking greenery around him just to get to her side. But, as soon as he is free of the clinging vines trying to entrap him in the same way that she currently finds herself, he _sidles_ up beside her.

“Could it truly be? Have I finally caught myself a lost girl?”

“You must be dreaming,” Emma shoots back.

Either that or she is living her nightmare.

“And what a lovely dream it is.”

He’s going to make this absolute torture for her. His eyes are gleaming with it - this is a disaster worthy of Pan himself. The little ass is probably watching in glee as Emma tries not to struggle against the vines and make them even tighter. Best not to give herself bruises as well as the headache Hook’s going to give her before he deigns to free her.

“I do enjoy a bit of bondage from time to time, too, so I don’t fault you for your predicament,” he says.

“Well isn’t that nice? I’m so glad to hear that you don’t fault me for being attacked by vines and getting tied to a tree,” she drags out the words, leaning her head back against the bark of the tree in frustration.

She lets out a huffed breath too as he goes on like she’s said nothing at all, asking, “However, I must ask, just _how_ you got yourself into said predicament?”

“I need the flowers. I’m running low,” she says.

He nods, and starts that slow search of her face that always makes her feel like she should do something to stop him - he _shouldn’t_ look at her that way.

“Is it the flowers you’re running low on? Or the hope? Isn’t that how your flight is powered, on hope and happiness and all those lovely things?” he says, tone leaning towards the sarcastic as he leans into her, close enough for her to head-butt or -

“Oh, either fuck off or help me,” Emma says.

“If the lady insists,” he proclaims and then steps back and begins to hack away at the vines around her, careful not to stab her which is great, Emma commends him for that, truly, and for the single minded focus that has him keeping his damn mouth shut. She can’t stand his mouth, the words that come from it and the shape of it and every damn dimple it forms in his cheeks.

The second the vines loosen, Emma jumps away from the tree and picks up her own fallen sword. Turning bitterly towards the tree, she slaps at it with the flat of her blade, a warning for next time. The vines twist around, clearly chagrined in the way they droop, green leaves hanging low.

Emma doesn’t feel a shred of guilt. They’d choke the life out of her if they could, and she’d have avoided them entirely if she could but she’s running low and those damn flowers aren’t going to pick themselves.

Damn Hook, because she is running far too low on the hope, happiness, and all those fucking lovely things that make traveling this nightmare realm tolerable.

This is what happens when you make an enemy of Pan, you end up making do with fairy dusted flowers just so you can skip daily tussles with the mermaids from hell when you hop from island to island to avoid Satan’s spawn, also known as Lost Boy Numero Uno, Felix.

And it’s an hourly tossup between enduring this life or the one she left behind in that car to nowhere at all.

At least here she has Hook to needle her while she’s down -

“Need a hand? Or a hook?” he asks, smile teasingly small when she gives him a sideways glance.

“Keep the vines off me,” Emma says.

He gives her a long look that starts at her waist and ends at her breasts and should be topped off with a punch to the face but Emma’s too tired to play annoyance when she’s comfortable enough with his eyes on her. Hook’s too truthful in his intentions at times but he also doesn’t play games, and that’s who she needs at her back right now, even if his eyes stay there for a beat too long.

She starts to ascend the tree again, climbing branch after branch while Hook whistles a tune that attracts the vines around her like some kind of vine-whisperer. What kind of fucking skill is that? One that she’ll probably need to pick up on for next time when he’s not there to give her a hand - or a hook.

Emma shakes away a smile and twists to catch the smaller vine that Hook’s whistling hasn’t attracted. It fights her, but she’s unwilling to be caught off guard again, pulling hard enough to release it from the tree and drop it down the ground now far below.

But _not_ far below enough for her not to hear Hook’s cursed “Bloody hell!”

“Sorry,” she murmurs under her breath, fighting a smile at his second curse and the whistle of his tongue and his blade.

She looks up as everything gets just a little darker. A delicate touch is not something she has, but she tries her best not to rustle the leaves beyond repair when she grabs for the pink flowers peeking between them so she can collect the dust into the little bag at her waist. It’s a difficult task and vines start to float up beside her, caught in the dust that falls from her less than graceful hands, but she manages to avoid their reaching tendrils and Hook manages to avoid the falling dust, so she doesn’t end up with a face full of pirate _and_ she gets enough dust to at least get her to the top of another tree so she can collect more later.

Which will be enough to get her to the next island and away from this damned one.

Bag tied securely at her waist again, she descends faster than she ascended which is not her first mistake of the day but it feels like the biggest one when the branch beneath her foot cracks and she finds herself falling right to the forest floor.

“Fuck,” she curses, spitting dirt from her mouth and clutching at herself, searching for a spot that doesn’t hurt enough to make her want to curse and cry.

“You’re alive, that’s good,” Hook says above her.

She groans, feeling herself flush hot when his hand touches at her shoulder. She goes with it anyway, turning over and up, ignoring the tingling pain in her shoulders and back. They’re not broken. She can handle the pain, she can, she just needs to suck it the fuck up and address more important things.

Hook’s hand is on her face, stroking over her cheek.

“You’re going to have a rather dark bruise, I’m afraid,” he says.

He’s crouched at her level so she blinks hard to clear the annoying pained tears from her eyes and musters her strength to say, “Yeah, I guessed that when I landed face first on the ground. You can let me go now.”

“I can,” he says.

His fingers move down her cheek to her chin. It stings a bit, and she realizes the skin’s been scraped raw there and she’s bleeding. He pulls away and she sees it bright red on his fingers, not much, but enough that she’s even more embarrassed.

“Here,” he says, going for the scarf around his wrist.

It’s uncomfortably familiar, but hurting herself and having him patch her up has become routine at this point.

And this is routine, too, knowing she shouldn’t meet his eyes as he douses the scarf in his rum and takes it out of her hand so he can clean her wound himself, knowing that and doing it anyway, watching him as he watches her for signs of pain.

“You always look at me like my rum is poison,” he says.

“It certainly isn’t wine,” Emma murmurs.

His brow lifts, mouth parting curiously. She stares at his bottom lip - hates that she notices just how pink it is before he pulls it into his mouth and draws her gaze back to his eyes.

“Is that a reference of some kind?” he asks.

She blanks for a beat and instead of answering, pushes his hand away so she can stand up on her pained legs. Bruises, bruises everywhere, oh joy.

“It’s just a song,” she says.

“Music, wonderful!” he says, using his hook to maneuver himself into a stand as well.

“I’m not singing for you,” she says.

He chuckles, sways just a bit closer to her, and says, “Nor would I ask you, too, love.”

Emma’s face goes hot again which makes her cheek flare with pain. She reaches up her hand to her cheek as he reaches out to do the same, their hands meeting on her skin, his palm cupping her face while she rests her fingers in his knuckles.

“As a gifted sailor, I know better than to invite a siren’s song,” he says.

Hook draws his hand away gently and the pain flares so much that she has to push past him so she can grab up her sword from the ground again.

“Felix is prowling about, you know.”

She keeps her back to him as she busies herself strapping her sword back to her belt and making sure the fairy dust is within easy reach.

“And Pan won’t be far behind. Yes, I suppose that’s my cue to be off. You wouldn’t care to join me?”

She turns around, leveling him with a look that should say everything it needs to - but he levels her with one that says _everything_ and he really needs to stop doing that when her face feels like it’s swelling up and she’s covered in dirt and she feels like a complete mess who doesn’t need him to look at her with those too knowing eyes.

Emma grasps for the dust at her waist, and he nods and says, “No, I suppose not.”

She doesn’t know whether he leaves without looking back because she’s in the air before he can even give his goodbye.

;;;;

They make for a strange pair of not-allies, the pirate and the orphan, Pan’s Arch-Nemesis and Pan’s Lost Girl (™ because he almost certainly would put that on a T-Shirt and sell it just to piss Emma off if he could; and Felix would certainly model it, wear it like a trophy while he’s trying to collect Emma’s head as one.)

Not-Allies because given a choice Emma would not opt for the “one-handed pirate with a drinking problem” (Pan’s words, not hers, but accurate if anything.) Though, if she’s being technical, she was given a choice by Pan himself - him or the pirate, and she took the best one in the situation.

So, well, given a choice, she’d make the same one, all things considered.

Because all things considered, she’s drowning right now, her strength as well as her sword lost to the battle with that bubblegum pink tailed mermaid, and it’s Hook’s arm winding around her waist, pulling her to safety. It’s his body she’s relaxing into, his that she feels at least some semblance of safety with.

Pan would’ve left her to die.

Hook just makes her feel like she’d rather do that from time to time.

This time not being one of them as he drags her to the beach, collapsing beside her while she coughs up the sea in her lungs, trying to clear the water from her eyes while also attempting to collect herself enough to move out from beneath his arm.

“Don’t move too fast, love, you’ll make yourself sick,” he says.

“I’m already sick. I’m sick of this fucking island,” she hisses, coughing in between words as she chokes on more water. It’s like she swallowed most of the damn sea.

Fuck those fucking mermaids.

“It seems to be sick of you as well,” he says, his arm sliding her closer to him, so when she finally opens her eyes and turns over, she’s staring right at him.

His eyes are shut and with the way the wet hair clings to his forehead, he looks like he’s the one who drowned. Worry swells in her chest for a second until his mouth curls into a grin and he opens his eyes, and then she’s just cursing herself for being worried when she’s the one with the burning vision.

“The worst of it is over, and I’m sure the mermaids will think twice of trying to drown you now.”

“It took my sword,” Emma says.

She’s aware she sounds like a whining child, no need for his eyes to twinkle like that, for his dimples to deepen in his cheeks as he says, “I have a few stored aboard my ship, enough to last all your likely future mishaps.”

“Likely future mishaps,” she says, deadpan.

( _Dead Pan_ \- that has a nice ring to it.)

“I’ll take the sword -”

He cuts her off, says, “And I have quite a few empty bunks should you desire not to sleep in a cave tonight.”

“Are you following me?” she demands, frustrated.

“Would you prefer the truthful answer?” he says, asking it like the truth is more than what is obvious - that he _is_ following her for god knows what reason beyond her being the only other adult on this island, the only (human) woman, the only person who doesn’t want to kill him (all the time) and the only one who he looks at like he’s looking at her now.

Emma turns away. Her body feels unbearably heavy as she sits up and she starts to shiver, the water chilling on her arms.

“I would prefer you to stop aiming for a restraining order,” she says.

“I love when you say things that go right over my head,” he says.

“Alright, Clueless, stop following me, give me the sword, and -” She pauses, rubbing her arms over to try to brush off some of the water, so she isn’t shivering so much when she says, “Thank you for saving my life. Again.”

“Think nothing of it,” he says softly.

She turns to look at him and she’s probably approaching hypothermia or something because the shiver goes all the way up her spine, starts a trembling in her bones and a peculiar feeling of warmth in her chest when she finds him staring at her, eyes crinkled softly in a way that could almost be mistaken for sleepy if the blue wasn’t so bright - the sea stretched before them starting to look like a pale reflection of the color in his eyes.

She scrambles to her feet and reaches down a hand to help him to his, and as his hand clasps hers, she says, “Really. Thanks.”

He holds her hand for a long moment before he allows her to help him to his feet - and when he finally lets her go, she shivers again, a full bodied thing that he must see, must notice, but he doesn’t say a word.

;;;;

The rain always has her seeking shelter on his ship, always being the term she’s using to describe for the past ten nights they’ve spent in a storm the likes of something Emma has never seen. She wouldn’t have survived had she not finally taken up his offer for shelter - wouldn’t have survived if Felix’s whooping hadn’t had her racing from her makeshift home with nothing but her small pack and her sword into Hook’s arms as he raced to meet her.

Wouldn’t have survived without him really, but by the smell of the liquor he’s opening now, she isn’t going to survive with him.

“Now, mind you, Emma, this stuff is much stronger than what you’re used to,” he says as he takes a whiff of the glitter laced bottle.

Fairies have as much self-control with glitter as five year olds, who’d’ve thought?

“Stronger than your centuries old rum?” Emma asks.

Hook narrows his eyes, a disgruntled smile covering his features as he says, “I am not as old as you seem to believe.”

“I didn’t say you were. Sounds like someone’s insecure about their age.”

She sings the last part and has the fleeting thought of him calling her a siren, takes a small moment to wonder whether her voice is as entrancing as that, or if it’s as it always has been to everyone - too small for him to even hear.

The thought passes, helped along by Hook’s petulant, “I’m not insecure -”

“That’s what someone insecure would say,” she points out.

His expression falls somewhere between “Fuck you,” which is weird because she’s never heard such a curse grace his lips, not even when Pan tried to burn his ship to the ground, and curiosity which is weirder merely because it makes his eyes widen and brighten and all those things they manage to do when she’s done nothing at all to warrant it.

_Weird_.

Hook reaches out and - oh, for fuck’s sake - he boops her on the nose and says, “You’re teasing me.”

“You’ve got me there,” she says, wrinkling her nose in response - like Jesus Christ, she isn’t twelve, and they’re both adults and he shouldn’t be smiling so much at her distress or whatever the hell he’s smiling about, like he has a secret.

Or just _knows_ a secret.

Maybe one that isn’t even his to know.

“Just a taste for you, then,” he says.

“I’m not drunk if that’s what you’re implying. I can be teasing without alcohol.”

Emma crosses her arms over her chest, she’s pouting, she’s pouting like goddamn child and she might be a little drunk but her cheeks aren’t red, not until he reaches out again, this time with his hook, curling it around a wave of her hair.

“Can you?” he asks softly.

She twists her head back, rolling her eyes and shrugging out her shoulders. “Just pour me a glass of the fairy stuff, alright.”

“As you wish.”

She knows she’s drunk when her first thought isn’t to the unintentional reference but to how steady he pours the green glowing alcohol into their two glasses, how careful he is when he hands it to her, how he nods - way more sober than she is, more sober than she would think he would be in these circumstances when there’s a storm raging around them and they’re both stuck in a hell of their own making. It’s something that would turn any man to drink, but here he is sharing his special brew with her.

Sharing a smile over the glass that looks like it’s starting to bubble, and sharing a touch as he raises his glass to hers, knocks his knuckles against hers hard enough to make it slosh over her fingers, warm and warmer still as she presses the glass to her lips - bottom’s up, and heart racing, racing away.

;;;;

It’s raining again, but it’s so soft Emma barely feels it, doesn’t feel anything except his skin as she runs her fingers over his cheek, waiting, hoping, hoping, and _hoping_ with all her might _._

His eyes flutter open, he takes in a breath and he’s already reaching out for her before she can do anything but stare at him.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says softly.

“Killian,” she says, voice raw like she’s been crying his name for so long her voice has gone with it. Except, she’s been sitting here for only long minutes of hoping (and _hoping_ ) and she hasn’t been able to manage a word since Felix disappeared through the trees, her knife in his side and Killian’s blood -

Killian’s blood staining his club, the very same blood still oozing slow from the wound on his head and still coating her fingers in red.

Emma wipes her hand on her pants, careful not to jostle his head in her lap. She knows she doesn’t have a gentle touch - they both know this - but he leans into it anyway, humming softly.

His eyes flicker shut and Emma panics - “Killian!”

“No need to worry, Swan. I promise not to lay in your lap much longer, as truly comfortable as it is. We’ll need to move. Pan won’t like that you’ve hurt his favorite.”

She nods because she knows that she’s still on the verge of a panic attack. She feels like Pan’s Lost Girl right now, feels lost even though Killian’s warm, solid, and _moving_ , lifting slowly from her lap so he can stumble to his feet, reach out his hand, and pull her up with him.

He doesn’t let her hand go as they move through the trees, even though it would be easier if he let her go, even though he’d probably move faster if he left her hand to shake at her side instead of keeping it warm within his.

“…and I think I left my flask behind but I’m sure that fairy stuff is good for more than just leaving us passed out on each other, right?”

Right.

Emma had awoken with her head on his shoulder, woken up her hands fisted in his shirt like she didn’t want to let him go, woken up with his name on her tongue, “Killian,” breathed into his neck and feeling - not like she feels now, at a loss and so lost even with his hand guiding her way.

Killian must know it somehow because he doesn’t let her go until he has to, until Emma’s shaking hands are on the oars, pushing them away from shore to the Jolly, and then he rests his hand on her back, keeping her steady with his words, a story that she’ll never remember, only his fingers moving up and down her spine.

;;;

“It’s safe,” he says but he doesn’t know the meaning of the word - that is _if_ they are going by Emma’s meaning of it, that being anything not involving interaction with him because that seems to only be leading one place.

“I’ll determine that,” she says.

“Oh ho-ho, Swan, if you think I’m leaving you to this all alone…”

Emma tears her eyes away from the wheel for a moment, just the moment it takes to lose her concentration and leave them grazing the water again.

She tries to be calm about it, tries not to grit her teeth too much when she starts, “I would really appreciate it if you did -” but Killian steps in behind her and she can’t be calm about it.

“Fuck off,” she hisses.

And then falters as his eyes flash with hurt, his smile falling slowly into an impassive stare.

“Right. I apologize,” he says.

She hesitates, unsure what to do with that - whether to apologize herself, to explain what can’t be explained without saying too much, but -

It’s too late by the time she decides what to do, he’s already disappearing below deck with a called out, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Emma turns back to the wheel, pressing her hands to the hardwood, runs her fingers over the carved P, its lettering sliced through by some kind of blade. She traces that as well, catching a splinter in her finger that she pulls out before it can deepen. Blood wells at the tip, not much, just a pinprick of it. It hurts just a little, not enough to draw her focus and yet -

She doesn’t manage to lift the ship again. Not once, and when evening comes, when Killian still hasn’t reappeared, Emma gives up, takes herself to her bunk and a night of fitful sleep.

-

“Morning, Swan,” he says.

Emma’s immediately suspicious and not just because he’s in her room (technically), standing over her (more like looming), and smiling like she’s made a brilliant joke instead of just grunting at him.

“What are you doing?”

“If we’re going to get out of this dread land, we’ll need to start prepping. We’ll need food for the journey. Are you up for some hunting?”

“Am I up for…? Hook, I’m not even up,” she says, turning into her pillow with a yawn.

He stays silent long enough that she looks at him, but his expression hasn’t changed, that smile still plastered on his face.

“Killian,” she says, realizing that she’s correcting herself at the same time he does, which is a pity, she could’ve used those few seconds to prep herself for his smile turning into a smirk, for that happy twinkling in his eyes.

She could’ve used prep for the way her heart starts trying to break down the doors of her ribcage, slamming fitfully within her chest as he reaches towards her, offering her a hand that she skillfully avoids by sitting up of her own accord even though her limbs are still mostly asleep and highly uncoordinated.

He takes this in stride, dropping his hand back to his side and says, “I’ll give you some time to get ready, but then we’ll have to get moving. The Neverbeast waits for no man.”

“Neverbeast? Oh, fucking hell.”

-

This is hell.

This is hell, pure and simple, and it’s maddening - Emma is beyond mad, she’s pissed at how cheery he’s managed to be all day.

All fucking day of her heart doing that flippy-floppy thing every time he so much as leans in her direction, and him completely oblivious to how his hand at her elbow makes her shiver, how his mouth at her ear makes her tremble, how - when the beast has them cornered within the waterfall, Emma’s empty quiver squashed between her back and the wall he presses her against - when he looks down at her and smiles like they aren’t about to become lunch, she feels like grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and crashing her lips into his until she wipes that damn smile from his face and replaces it with something else -

With the understanding that he doesn’t seem to have of what he keeps doing to her. After all the months - nearly a year if her count is right - of flirting with her like his life depends on it, he should know. He should be able to _see_ how she just wants to card her fingers through his hair until it’s a mess atop his head, wrap her hand around the back of his neck and find out exactly what he tastes like when the rum is still clinging to his lips.

He should _know_.

But he doesn’t and she can’t just - she _could_ just kiss him, but every time he so much as touches her hand as he gives her the smelly half of the beast that she’s supposed to be carrying back to the ship, she loses all sense, feels like she’s floating right off the ground -

Until he nudges his elbow against her and says, “You’re flying, Swan.”

“Fairy dust must’ve spilled when we were fighting that beast,” she says, hoping, hoping, and _hoping_ that he doesn’t notice how it’s still tied tight at her waist.

When her feet touch the ground again, she looks at him only long enough to say, “See? It wore off.”

“I do see,” he says.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t see a damn thing because he just hefts his beast a little higher and says, “Keep up.”

She makes sure not to float again, thinks as negatively as she can, which is easy-peasy. She just thinks of Pan, thinks of him figuring out what they’re doing, thinks of him coming after them - and Killian, blood staining his brow, Killian hurt and her hoping, hoping, _hoping_.

Thinks of Killian alive, tossing a smile at her over his shoulder as he says, “We’ll be off the ground in no time, Emma.”

“You can navigate us, right?” Emma asks, looking across the sea as it falls farther beneath them.

Simply, Killian replies, “Do you doubt me, Emma?”

“No.”

She says it too quickly, her heart starts a pace that would put Olympic runners to shame and he scratches at his chin too thoughtfully because he obviously doesn’t have a thought in his head that matters.

Emma can’t take this much longer, can’t take his response of, “Misthaven is within our sights,” at all, not when the Jolly lifts just a little higher and he could kiss her, he looks so happy.

But he doesn’t and she can’t take this, but she does.

Takes it just _swimmingly_.

-

“Are you ready?” Killian asks.

They’ve been sailing aimlessly all day just to keep out of Pan’s sights, but if they’re going to do this, they have to do this now and Emma’s not ready at all.

She can’t do this.

Not with his hand on the small of her back and the ship floating high enough that she’s sure she could make it touch the stars if she’s given just the right push, and all he’s doing is holding her steady, no push at all.

“We don’t have to do it tonight if you’re not sure, but I know you have it in you, Emma. You can do this.”

The Jolly lifts a little higher and his hand rises on her back, starting a gentle stroking motion.

“How do you know that?”

“I know you,” he says simply.

Super simple. Simplicity itself.

“Is this that open book stuff again? I swear, you don’t know me. You _don’t_ ,” she says.

He snorts, hand pausing its motions and Emma turns into him, poking a finger at his chest obstinately.

“You _don’t_ know a damn thing about me because if you did, you’d have…”

“I’d have ‘what,’ Emma?”

His gaze puts the damn ocean to shame, deeper than even its depths.

She makes a noise that is so embarrassing that she has no recourse left, grabs him and pulls his head down so she can kiss him - and Killian, he doesn’t so much as fall into the kiss as he dives into, crushing her to him, and they sway together. Emma steps back but she can’t gain any footing in this, she’s lost, so fucking lost in it that her head feels like it’s in the clouds.

She didn’t think it would feel this cold.

They break apart, Emma shivering wildly as she realizes that it’s fogging around them and water’s raining down on her bare arms.

“Lift us a little higher, love. Don’t want you to catch a chill,” he says.

“Are you fucking serious?”

He is, he is serious because he pulls her back against him again, dotting kisses from the crown of her head down to her nose before he lifts her chin - and they rise and rise above the cloud -

Lifts her chin and presses his smile into the corners of her mouth, one by one.

“I could keep kissing you until we touch the stars but I feel it’s best that we stop right here for now. Let me get my bearings,” he says against her lips.

She nods because what is there to say to that?

What is there to do but let him angle her towards the wheel, let him press her up against it and wraps his arms around her as he turns it towards Misthaven.

He places his head in the crook of her neck, his breath ghosting over her skin as he sighs happily.

“You knew,” she mutters.

“I had my suspicions,” he says.

He presses a kiss to her neck that makes her skin buzz pleasantly and the ship sway just a bit, dancing above the clouds.

Emma’s going to ask what they do now. She’s going to ask what happens in Misthaven, what happens when they’re out of Pan’s sight, where they go from here, but instead, she leans back into him, drops her hands above his hand and hook and sighs.

“Think we could touch the moon?” she asks.

He brings their joined hands away from the wheel, up to her chest until they’re rocking hip to hip, kisses a path from her neck to her collarbone.

“We could certainly try.”


End file.
